Where’d You Learn to Kiss That Way? by The Field Mice (Review)

I’m convinced that unrequited love is a guilty pleasure. It somehow justifies all of the heartache you go through, to think that you’re in the right and she’s in the wrong. The certainty that you are somehow destined to be with them makes it okay to sit next to them or talk to them, even when you know the smallest word or gesture will throw your entire world into turmoil. It’s the belief that you are somehow suffering and enduring for their love that makes that very suffering legitimate. Why else do we immerse ourselves in it every so often, indulging in the idea that we can be everything to someone else, even when they make it so painfully clear that’s not the case?

If unrequited love is a guilty pleasure for some of us, I’m convinced that it’s a lifelong passion for Bobby Wratten. Wratten was the lead singer, songwriter, and heartacher of The Field Mice, a group whose name is still whispered with awe and reverence in certain circles. One of the flagship bands of Sarah Records, The Field Mice wrote atmospheric pop songs that predated the shoegazer and britpop movements. But it all served only as a vehicle for Wratten’s unending stream of songs about heartache and nostalgia.

There is definitely something winsome about parts of Where’d You Learn to Kiss That Way?. But two discs of the stuff tends to get a little much. After making it through one disc, I find little desire to slip in the other to complete the fix. And if you’re looking for a lot of variety to the music, you might want to look elsewhere. For the most part, The Field Mice stuck to the same old formula: jangly guitars with just a hint of noise, simple basslines, the occasional dreamy keyboard melody, and Wratten’s vocals (which always seem a little awkward, but maybe that’s part of the charm). Perfect examples of this are “If You Need Someone” and “Emma’s House.” Occasionally, synths and drum machines take center stage, and the sound becomes similar to that of early Saint Etienne or 808 State (“Missing the Moon,” “Triangle”).

Lyrically, Where’d You Learn to Kiss That Way? is a mixed bag. Like the music, the lyrics never deviate from being confessions of all those weepy-eyed emotions associated with being hopelessly in love. No one would ever confuse these lyrics with great poetry. They’re quite simple, sometimes even childishly so. On paper, song titles like “And Before the Last Kiss,” “Anyone Else Isn’t You,” and “This Love Is Not Wrong” may not sound all too promising. But the catch is that Wratten sounds so honest that it’s hard not to get caught up with him. “Canada” may be one of the catchiest songs on either disc, but it’s probably the lyrical lynchpin to Wratten’s laments: “He doesn’t love you/I’m the one who loves you/I’m the one who loves you/You don’t love me/He’s the one you love/He’s the one you love.”

It’s not as smart as, say, Belle & Sebastian, but sometimes you don’t need sarcastic wit when you just want to have about a nice lovelorn song. And some of the songs are gorgeous. The dreamy atmospheres and dreampop-textured guitars on “It Isn’t Forever” underscore the longing in Wratten’s voice. “And Before the First Kiss” is a moving acoustic ballad in the midst of house-y rhythms and bouncy melodies, and serves as an emotional anchor in the midst of it all. And even the most upbeat of songs, especially the bouncier electronic numbers like “Missing The Moon” can’t escape the fact that they’re about broken hearts.

But as with most retrospectives and double CDs, there is plenty of fodder. Where’d You Learn to Kiss That Way? compiles the band’s entire catalog, minus a song or two. Therefore, you get both the good and the bad (the sound quality also varies; some of these songs sound like demo recordings). As a result, Wratten’s forlorn, rainy day pop can become repetitive and tedious over extended listens. You can only listen to Wratten sing “I’ve never been more lonesome” so many times before you stop feeling sorry for him and start wishing he’d move on. Although the second disc has several gems (“Clearer” and “End of the Affair” come to mind), I find myself listening to the first disc more, mainly because the first disc shows off The Field Mice’s electronic side and that by the second disc, so many of the album’s themes (or “theme”) seem stale and repetitive.

Love is as much about growing up and moving on as it is about dwelling on the past. But if you’re not in the mood to move on, if you’re caught on a rainy day with someone’s face indelibly etched into your mind, then there’s something particularly indulgent about listening to Where’d You Learn to Kiss That Way?. It’s as indulgent as remembering your first kiss, in all of its fumbling, innocent glory. It’s as indulgent as thinking about the first time you saw her, and how something as trivial as the way she walked held your attention. It’s as indulgent as losing yourself in her memory, feeling that familiar ache in your heart, and loving every single minute of it.